


Wildflowers

by roraruu



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Character Study, F/M, I think u can call this a study??? Idfc, OOC, TW: Swearing, TW: injuries, anyways i like to suffer dm me if u want to be in pain too, backwards burn, idk??? I’m coining that? Anyways its like a slowburn but backwards, relationships, tw: depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 18:16:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20086624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roraruu/pseuds/roraruu
Summary: After the war, Faye and Tobin plan to marry for love, but hopes and dreams and realities and opportunities begin to drive them apart.





	Wildflowers

**Author's Note:**

> y’all ever start with an idea for a one shot and end up writing 21k on it and laying in bed crying over it??? ye same...  
i posted this like 5 or so mos ago on tumblr outta impulse, but now its ready, or at least i hope. i wasted too long on this and i think its clogged me up writing wise so hopefully posting this will help push me forwards... i wanna write some editor/writer relationships...  
as always, thanks for reading ❤︎

Faye never noticed how shy Tobin is around her, not until she found him staring at her stitching for too long. When she glanced toward him, he turned away, suddenly enamoured with the rag against his lance. The mage looked back to her pile of torn garments and clothes and from the corner of her eye, saw his head slowly look up at her until she gathered her stitching and said goodnight.

She thought it strange for such a close friend to look the other way and turn around when their paths cross. It was never like this in Ram—not even when they attended festivals and fairs. It had only started to get awkward after they left Zofia Castle, marching toward Desaix’s fortress; the march when she nursed a broken heart as they walked and when they rested at night and her tears were comforted by Silque’s motherly mien. 

Maybe it was then that she started to pay attention to others aside from Alm. Her eyes had wandered to the other villagers—Kliff and Gray and Tobin. For the first time she no longer saw three brotherly-boys she’d grown up caring for, but now a wry mercenary, a scrupulous cavalier and a disciplined mage.

Her gaze stayed on Tobin for the remainder of their Deliverance days, returning his lorn glances with an unflinching stare. He’d been just as kind as he was back home, but in a stiffer, more courteous way. There were no more pats on the back when she’d critically injured the enemy or compliments called out; instead a nod of the head and a hidden smile. Perhaps this sudden change was from all the time he’d spent training with Mathilda and Clive, or that she was another of Mila’s pawns.

At first she assumed it was second-hand embarrassment from her broken heart and understood wholeheartedly. But she found his behaviour strange after weeks of rigid greetings and painful hellos when tending to a fire together or folding clean sheets for the infirmary. Even when they weren’t together, she’d catch him staring while she practiced her spells, turning tail with injuries when Silque was training her in white magic, avoiding her gaze when she looked when she looked up between bites of stew.

It pained her. He was perhaps her oldest friend—their homes were almost right beside each other and he’d pestered her when they played or trained as children. To see such a tender, close friend drift away from her was a pain worse than a broken heart. She remembers trying to ask Gray and Kliff, both of whom he’d spent more and more time with. Kliff just scoffed and walked off, muttering the words “_unbelievable_” while Gray had shrugged and said he didn’t know.

Her needle moved in and out of the fabric of the sheet at her fingertips, merging the two straits back together with thread. Her gaze moved to the lantern in front of her, the pillar candle inside flickered as the wick slowly turned into a charred stub in a sea of wax. With still a small mountain of stitching to do, she had hoped the candle would hold out until she retired for the night.

She heard someone call outside her tent, soft-spoken and shy. “Come in.” She said, checking the tear. It was tightly cinched, ready to be split again when Silque healed another injured soldier.

Tobin’s head poked through the flaps. ”Hey.” He said, same stiff voice he’d used for ages.

“Hey Tobe.” She said, used to the last minute additions. He held a familiar white cloak that he was probably sent with. “Mathilda’s cloak ripped too?”

“Yeah.” He said quietly. “It tore during training.”

She held her hand out, taking a cloak from him. She bit at the string and her needle and folded the sheet, adding it to a pile for the medical tent. “You’ve got a lot of work there.” He marvelled, the mage was surrounded by stacks of repaired clothes.

“No rest for the wicked.” She said with a thin smile. Her eyes flickered to his and Tobin glanced away quickly.

She spread out Mathilda’s cloak along her workspace, her fingers running over the tear. She selected a spool of white thread from her darning box and fed it through the eye of her needle. She glanced up when he cleared his throat.

“Could I talk to you?” He asked, one of his hands knots into a fist.

She glanced up and noticed the other behind his back. Her brow furrowed as she moved the cloak into her lap. “You already are.” She said, her gaze turning back to the cloak.

He took a seat right beside her, on the bedroll that she’d unravelled. He was stiff for a moment before letting a sigh escape his lips. “I wanted to see how you’ve been holding out.” He said, pointing to the pile of white linens. “Does it ever end?”

“No. Silque says we can’t throw out good sheets, no matter how much they rip.” She said. “So that means I get to sew them every time they tear.” She pulled one from the pile and fanned it out, wrinkles forming all over. She shook her head. “But I don’t mind.”

“At least it keeps you busy.” He said tiredly as she folded the sheet again and threw it lamely back into the pile. “Every time I have a moment to relax Lady Mathilda is calling me to come and train with her. I swear she’s a demon.”

“Was this an errand or training from her?” Faye held up the edge of the cloak.

“A favour.” He said, glancing away from her.

“Favours are dangerous to give, especially to nobles.” She said. “Never know if they’ll keep them or not.”

“She’s good to her word.” Tobin promised. “I just wish she’d be good to it when we were training.”

“Ah, but you’re the one who wanted to be a cavalier.” She said, wagging a finger.

He nodded, gaze flickered to her. “That’s sorta a lie though...” He said.

“About wanting to be a cavalier?” She asked, brow furrowing.

“No, the free time.” He said. His cheeks turned pink. “I did have a few minutes to get these.”

She cocked her head as his other hand came out from behind his back. He’s had a handful of wildflowers in one of his hands. She can remember the buttercups and daisies and violets he’d brought and how small and big they were.

“They’re very pretty,” she said, glancing at them over for a moment. Her eyes flickered to his. “Are they for Clair?”

He blushed, shaking his head. “No.” he rubbed the back of his neck. “They’re actually for you.”

“Oh!” She said and took the handful from him. “Thank you.”

She reached for an old bottle, filled with a concoction at one time. She took a little water from her reserved skin and poured it in before setting the wildflowers in it. “They make this tent feel... homey.” She said.

“Faye, I don’t wanna be forward but...” He was nervous, somewhat giddy, but mostly tongue-tied. Looking back, she was weirded out, but now she sees it as endearing, even cute. “I’ve been thinking about life after the war.”

She smirked. Just like him to be thinking ahead of everyone. Cautious and calculated and careful.

“I want to spend more time with you.” He said, breaking through her thoughts. “After the war.”

“Pardon?” She said, face on fire.

He touched her hand, his cool fingers grazed against her warm skin. She felt the canvas close in on her, her tent becoming even smaller than it already was. She stood, ripping away from him. “You’re kidding right?” She asked as his brow furrowed.

“I wouldn’t joke about that.” He said and she believed him. But there was something in her mind, nagging at her, telling her that he’s playing with her heart, that this is a cruel joke between him and Gray and Kliff.

“You actually want to spend more time with me?” She asked, voice lowering. “Like... _Together?_”

He stood and she shied into the slanted corner of the tent. His face was red like a beet. “Yeah I do.” He said. “Is that wrong? I mean, you’ve been around me forever, we know everything about each other. It’s sorta perfect. Like you.”

“You think I’m perfect?” She asked, face flushing red too. She remembers fighting a swoon.

“Like a wildflower.” He said, gaze flickered back to the little bottle behind them. “And I don’t care if you’ve still got feelings for Alm.”

The mention of their leader sparked memory of Tobin’s chase for the highborn flier. “So is it a mutual pining thing?” She asked, her voice bitter and accusatory. “We’re both second down the list—I can’t have Alm, you can’t have Clair so we have each other?”

He shook his head. “It’s not like that.” He said.

“Then what is it like?”

“I wanna be yours!” He said too loudly. Even thinking about it now, she blushes. His gaze meet hers. “I’ll wait if I have to and I don’t care if you don’t want me like that. I just want you Faye. Just as you are.”

Blood rushed to her cheeks as she touched the clasp of her cape. She couldn’t her eyes from his, instead staring at him dumbly. “Just as I am?” She asked.

“Just as you are.”

There was a short silence as she weighed everything on the biased scales in her mind. He was a childhood friend, as close as she was to Alm, perhaps closer. He was kind and sweet, clueless at times, and asking her for her time after the war. And at that moment, recklessness and serendipity hits her, picking at her reckless and impulsive side.

She met his gaze, biting at her bottom lip. “Why wait for the war to end?” She asked. She’d though his eyes were as big as saucers when she reached for his hand. “If you’ll be mine right now, I’ll be yours.”

The words echo in her mind as she watches his hands waver on his steed’s reins from over his shoulder. At first she thinks it’s from the shrine they’re exploring; no matter how many layers they wear, they’re always cold from the dampness of the shrine.

They’re travelling together, as many couples in the army tend to do. A pair, connected at the elbow, watching each other’s backs as they marched. She’s on the back of his steed, burying her face tiredly into his shoulder. White magic has left her sore and tired. Her arms are limply wrapped around his waist and she yawns into his shoulder blade.

“Still awake there wildflower?” He asks, her nickname making her smile into his shoulder.

“Barely.” She says tiredly as he turns to plant a kiss on her bangs. Her face glows with a blush. His gaze returns to the coral deposits and murky water before them. She frowns. “You all right?”

He’s lost in his thoughts, staring blankly ahead as they march. “Tobe? Do we need to talk?”

“Hm? No, no I’m good.” He says, drawing a heavy breath. “You need to?”

“Only about how tired I am,” she whines, slumping further into his back. “I don’t know how Silque and Tatiana do it. White magic is awful.”

She feels him laugh and sits up. “You’re the one who wanted to be a priestess.” He says.

She tries to say something wry and funny, opening her mouth just as the hiss of a Bonewalker breaks the air. Lukas calls for them to ready the frontline and Faye slips off the back of his steed. She draws her sword from it’s sheath as Tobin readies his lance. “Stay safe.”

He gives her a smile, one that looks unsettled as she adjusts her grip on her sword. “I will.” He says. “You be safe too.”

She goes to the back line, watching. She hears hooves and a loud whinney as he and Rosanne run back. “Wildflower!” He calls.

She begins to recite her Recovery spell, still exhausted from using it the night before in training. He’s not injured, not even scratched. “What’s wrong?” She says.

“I love you.” He says with wavering breath.

Faye’s brow furrows. “I love you too, I thought we all ready went over this?” She asks.

“We did but I... I’ve been thinking—“ A witch moves towards him as he draws his lance higher. “Would you marry me?”

“What did you say?” She asks, brow furrowed. A part of her wishes that he’s joking—but he’s not the type to jest in battle.

“I want us to get married!” He says again, this time louder. She flushes, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed them. The others seem detached from this moment—the bright and hopeful look on his face, the confused smile on hers.

Faye’s brow furrows. “We’re in the middle of a battle?” She cries, flushing red.

“I know?” He looks at her expectantly, his lance moving backwards to hit the witch before him with vim.

“Really?” She asks, nervously. The thought of a life with him has entered her thoughts recently. The evocative dream of returning home to Ram Village and living a simple life with him.

“Yeah, I want to marry you,” he says again.

Her hands clench around her sword as she hears another Witch teleport. Her gaze flickers from him to the husk, raising the blade to cut her down. “Like... Now?”

“If you wanted to, I’d do it now!” He says, the brightest smile across his face. “Silque could officiate it, you’d be a beautiful bride.”

“In a pit of mud and water?” She can’t help but laugh.

“I don’t care about the place!” He says.

She can’t help but smile. She turns back to him, astride on his steed with a gallant smile. “Would you marry me Faye?” He asks. “I know it’s not a traditional engagement, but we can clear that up later.”

She sheathes her sword. Alm’s voice rings out for their victory and she feels a smile creep across her face. She nods quickly. “I’d be honoured to be your wife.” She says at last.

He beams, dismounting from his steed and running for her. He picks her up, holding her tight and whispering how happy he is. She smiles, warmth invading her body before he peppers her cheeks with kisses. He takes her chin in his hand, guiding her lips to his for a quick embrace that leaves her flushed and dizzy.

* * *

The war ends shortly after their engagement. It’s fine for the first few weeks, the first few months even. Without a second thought, Tobin and Faye stay in the capital of all Valentia, lending their lance and magic to the people. Their wedding is set back by weeks, months even, as there’s too many things that call for their attention before a wedding like coronations and knighting ceremonies, not to mention the minor and intimate high teas and balls where they both celebrate and mourn.

Faye herself is given the title as a righteous saviour and blessed in the new religion as a saint. Before she leaves, Silque venerates her as the patron of devoted hearts, something that sours her stomach. It is both exciting and nerve-wracking, to be exalted as a patron and knighted as a holy woman. But for her fiancé, the knighthood’s call is much louder than wedding bells.

Thankfully, waiting doesn’t bother her. She’s waited almost two decades for someone who didn’t want her, so what’s the harm in a few more weeks?

The castle is loud and stifling. From sun up to sundown, there’s bickering knights and demands for different issues. There’s too many problems and not enough hands to tackle them. There’s the pirate scourge that still plagues the island of Novis, the lurking Duma Faithful and the powerless husks of witches that wander the north. Not to mention the famine and food shortages in Rigel that are spreading rapidly to Zofia. It calls everyone away from pleasantries and decadent court life. But the plucky new knights and nobles insist that they’re now knights and must serve Valentia’s people.

Faye’s knighting was fine for the first month. She and Clair and Mathilda were sent to the north to quell a problem with some Terrors around a village; but upon their return, Faye felt the passion and purpose of war wane too quickly. Clair carries the same tiredness and disinterest in fighting as Faye does, unused to constant battles without a clear goal. When they return, the two surrender their knighthood, but keep both steed and magic close by.

She’d thought that the servants and people in the castle would drop her title, but the people still insist on calling her Lady Faye, something she has trouble getting used to. Truth be told, she has problems adjusting to a lot of castle life. The long dresses for one. They’re all gifted to her by tailors and seamstresses waiting for her approval. Celica even gifts her a long blue one with many bows. They’re too large, too heavy, suffocating her in corsets and petticoats. She didn’t even care for her heavy priestess robes that much, but she’d take them in a heartbeat over these heavy gowns that weigh her down.

After surrendering her knighthood, Faye becomes a consort to a knight, like Clair, and is to tend to the court. Alm insists that it’s to create better morale between old Zofian noble houses and the common folk. Celica hopes that Rigelian noble houses will one day be able to attend to their court without disdain or tension—but for the time being, it’s only Zofia. Clair murmurs that its only a short time until Zofia’s court returns to what it used to be: clucking young girls and scrupulous ladies who gossip at length.

Clair, who insists that they share more and more in common with their retirement from knighthood, stays close by Faye’s side. There’s nary a waking moment when the knight is not sitting with her, watching intently as Faye embroiders initials and designs into handkerchiefs and clothes and Clair gossips about the state of the continent. The knight shares every hope, every word that isn’t for the ears of men with Faye. Her eyes are always wide with a naive wonder, a smirk across her lips as she speaks her secrets to Faye. Yet, the mage sits stiffly, eyes blank and lips pursed with secrets she feels she cannot share.

“Tell me Faye, what do you dream of?” Clair asks one evening. They’re seated comfortably in the courtyard underneath the shade of some orange trees. The summer sun bleeds through the bowers, lighting the two in a molten glow. It’s not late enough to go to bed, nor early enough to go for an evening flight, something they both enjoy.

Without thinking, she speaks. “I want to go back to my village.” She says. It’s the first time she’s spoken it since her confession to Alm. It’s both exhilarating and freeing and terrifying. “I want to have a little garden on my own farm. I could take on work as a seamstress and have enough money to travel.”

Clair smiles at her ludicrously. “And fight your way against Terrors and rogues?”

“I wouldn’t have to fight in Ram.” Faye says. “There’s no way it changed. My Ma writes all the time and she’s never spoke of either.”

Faye lowers her handkerchief, studying the embroidered wildflowers along the edge. “Well it’s certain that you never have to worry about battles here.” Clair says. “At least, in our circumstances, right?”

“But you’ve still got your steed and I still have my magic, so we can be called to fight.” Faye says, her voice growing softer. “There’s always a chance for an attack, or some other skirmish...”

Clair hums softly, her blonde hair turning red in the light. “I don’t think your sweet little village is what is was before.” Clair says. “I know my manor is not; they are both one in the same.”

“Ram is different than your manor.” Faye protests. “It would never change.”

Clair laughs pitifully, her shadow jumping against the trees. “Silly Faye,” She says. “You’ve gotten a sense of humour, haven’t you? Who would want to leave a comfortable life in this castle for a little village?”

Faye realizes how silly it sounds; to have come from a tiny village and rise up to the title of a knight, then to trade in the life and all it’s luxuries for a small-time farm in the boonies. To leave security and comfort for a southern village where wolves and bandits and crop failure threatened her? Surely she was crazy.

So she smiles thinly and nods. “You’re right, I‘ve been dabbling in comedy to pass the time...” Faye lies. “Why give up something perfect?”

“Exactly.” Clair says, leaning to pat her hands. “Besides, I think we’ve formed the best sisterhood here. We’re like two knights on a pegasi, aren’t we?”

The mage knows Clair means the best and that she’s trying to relate to Faye, but they still cannot see eye-to-eye. Deep down, she’s still a noble heiress and Faye’s just the girl next door. She realizes that the walls between nobles and commoners still have not broken down, and probably never will.

“Now let me see that handkerchief, it’s just the most darling thing.” Clair says, moving Faye’s hands to get a better look.

Faye glances down to her lap, the string flowers almost finished. She weaves her needle in and out, knotting the thread and tearing it with her teeth. She holds it out. “It’s for Tobin.” She says. “I saw other court-goers making them, and I thought he would like it.

“That’s so sweet.” Clair breathes in awe. “You must show me how to sew, I want to make myself one.”

“Can’t, I’m not a teacher.” She says. “I’ll just make you one someday.”

“It’ll be perfect, I’m sure.” Clair returns to talking about the continent and every problem that Gray faces as a knight. Faye mentions a few things that weigh heavy on both hers and Tobin’s minds.

Clair holds up her hand. “I think I hear a guest...” She says with a thin smile. Coming up the courtyard steps are Faye’s fellow villagers. The pegasus knight smiles as Faye hides the handkerchief in her dress pocket. “Good evening.” Clair greets demurely.

They all greet politely, taking seats on the marble bench as the sun sets. “Faye was just telling the funniest joke about her village.” Clair says with a laugh.

“Oh what? The one about the shepherd and his sheep?” Tobin asks, glancing to her with a small smile. “I love that one.”

Gray smirks. “Or how forgettable it is?” He shoots. She knows that everything said is all in good fun, but she still feels a hot rush of embarrassment.

“No, no, she said she wanted to give up a life in the castle for Ram Village! How ridiculous is that?!” Clair laughs.

Gray and Tobin quickly look to her with ludicrous gazes, brows furrowed. Faye forces a smile, pressing her fingertips against the marble bench she sits on.

“No way I’m going back there.” Gray breaks the ice. He shakes his head. “Nothing against little ol’ Ram Village, but I thought I was gonna waste away there. Besides, Valentia needs help and I’m not gonna sit by while I can do something about it.”

“Yeah.” Tobin agrees, glancing to Faye for confirmation. “There’s too much to do and too many people to help. So I can stay for as long as I need.”

He forgets about her. It sours her stomach further. Gray is quick enough to poke Tobin and comment about his bride-to-be. His hand comes down on hers and he meets her gaze. “I mean we. We can stay as long as the continent needs us. Right?”

She feels her chest tighten as he offers a smile. “Yeah, I love the castle.” She says. Faye turns her hand over and curls her fingers around his palm.

They talk until the sun goes down. Slowly, the four move inside the palace and say farewells, the two couples going in separate directions. Faye follows Tobin up the staircase, sewing case in her hand. Their footsteps echo quietly against the carpeted marble.

Halfway up to her room, he stops walking and turns to her. “Do you really love the castle?” He asks softly. Tobin’s eyes narrow on her.

Faye’s grip tightens on the bannister. She nods. “I like it here a lot.” She says. “Truly. Everyday is exciting.”

“You know if you need to, we could leave.”

Her eyes widen and she almost drops the sewing case. “That would be nice, but you’re a knight you must stay here, should you not?” Faye breathes. She holds the case close to her chest.

“I mean yeah I should, but I can slip away right?”

She feels her heart race. Returning to home to Ram. Maybe they could even be married there, away from the court and the knights and all the eyes that make her nervous. A home and a garden and a flock of sheep and—

“Of course for an afternoon, but maybe something longer a few years in the future.” He muses.

She feels her heart slow. “Right.” She agrees.

“But there’s always hope for the future...” he says. “Anyways, we should just be thankful for the opportunities we have here.”

He begins to walk up the staircase again, further and further away from her. Faye flushes and reaches into her apron pocket, pulling out the carefully-embroidered handkerchief. “Tobin,” she calls.

The knight stops and turns around. She holds out the handkerchief. “Here, I made you this.” Faye says. “I saw other women making them and thought it would be nice...”

“Aw, wildflowers. Thank you darling.” Her face heats as he glances to her outstretched hands. His fingers curl around her palm to take it. “It’s really pretty... I don’t want it to get ruined.”

Faye’s brow furrows. “But don’t you want to use it?” She says. “That way I know you love it.”

Tobin glances to the handkerchief and then back to her. His lips spread into a thin smile and he takes it from her hands, slipping it back into his pocket. He offers to walk her back to her quarters, giving her a kiss goodnight while a tightness finds it’s way to her throat.

A week later, she finds the embroidered handkerchief left on his armoire behind an old cog.

* * *

Faye’s mother writes her often. Mostly about what she’s missing in Ram. Musings and goings-on and gossip she’s missed. She remembers gathering water by the well and hearing news on the late king of Zofia and his corrupted court. She wonders how it is now, what tales are spun while other girls, both younger and older than she, gather the same water for the same tasks.

The latest letter panders for a while—notes on Nana’s wavering health and how their crops have weakened in the slightest. There’s even talk of other village girls marrying and welcoming children to their homes. And there, at the bottom of the letter is the question she dreads: when will you and Tobin return to our village?

Her stomach turns. She sits and stares at it for too long that her head begins to hurt. The letter goes unanswered for two days—something she rarely does. Even in the war, she’d answer them as soon as they came, sometimes slipping a travelling merchant a silver mark or two to ensure quick delivery.

Then, in the evening while they walk through the royal gardens, she asks him bluntly. “When do you think we’ll return to Ram?”

“Ram?” Tobin says, brow furrowing. “I thought you were joking about going back.”

She shrugs lamely, pulling a hand through a bush of flowers. “Do you mean go back forever or for a visit?” He asks dumbly.

Her throat tightens again as she nods. “Definitely the latter.” She says, forcing a smile. Her eyes flicker from the flowers to him. “Or for longer, if you wanted of course.”

“You miss home, don’t you?” Tobin asks, slowing down. They stop walking.

She nods. She’s like a child, unable to meet his gaze. “Just a little bit.” Faye kicks up dirt. “After all, wildflowers can’t grow in the city.”

He chuckles softly. “Alright. We’ll go back in a couple of days.” He suggests, his fingers trailing up her arm and around her waist. He pulls her closer, mumbling into her hair. “I promise.”

“Really?” She asks, her head snapping up to meet his gaze. “You’re sure you can leave for a while? You said only an afternoon before...”

“I’ll fight for you. I’m sure the army won’t miss me for a few days.” He says. She huddles closer to him, her fingers lacing between his. “Maybe we’ll even tie the knot in Ram. Noble weddings seem a little stuffy.”

Faye laughs softly. “I like that idea.” They wander through the gardens until the moon is high. When she returns to her quarters that night, she pens the letter with hopeful words and presses a kiss against the envelope. She entrusts it to the soldier with a long and dark braid outside her door, who pledges that it will arrive as soon as possible.

Their visit on the other hand, is delayed for weeks. There’s crises in the north that demand the Brotherhood’s attention, violent clashes between old Zofian nobles and the commonwealth, witches and vestals that roam and plague old churches and priories that only knights can handle. There’s always a reason not to go, another plead for a few hours that become days and then weeks.

That is, until Faye decides to leave on her own terms. Clair joins her, saying that it will be an enlightening experience to see one of Valentia’s many villages. The entire ride home, Faye feels her the ache in her throat worsen. It only grows worse when her parents see her with Clair and without a future husband at her side. When they return to the southern palace, she treats it as if it’s just a cold and rests until Clair invites her to tea, saying that it will lift her spirits.

“You did seem dour when we left your village.” Clair says. Her wandering eyes glance to Faye’s nightgown, something she hasn’t left since they returned to the palace. She takes her meals in room and their nightly rides have stopped. “Perhaps seeing others will ward off such feelings.”

“I’m not sad, just sick.” Faye says as Clair raises her wrist to her forehead. She tsks thinly.

“You’ve no fever or flush. You’re just depressed. Come on, I promise it will be a good time.” Clair says with a smile. “We can get dressed up and enjoy a fun time together!”

The pegasus knight lays on dozens of reasons to come, like a good cup of tea and chatter that will distract her, pestering her more and more until Faye grumbles. “Fine, I’ll come along.” She agrees at last.

Clair overloads her with information—where the tea room is, how to dress, what time it is—and Faye can’t hold any of it. She’s been to tea before, back in Ram. It would usually occur between the elder women of the village and chatter about the town’s gossip, what little word they had about the royal family and about crops and harvest. No one would dress very nicely, as it would happen out of the blue most days. So in light of what she knows, Faye dresses as she would usually.

Clair is aghast when she walks into the tea room with her brown cape over her shoulders and the old pink dress. She notices the same confused look on the other court ladies’ faces as she moves towards Clair’s table and sat down. There’s a giggle as she adjusts in her seat and pulls a napkin onto her lap.

Faye doesn’t think her manners are rude. She’s quiet, yes, but she doesn’t cuss like she normally does or laughs loudly when one of the ladies makes a joke. But still, she’s looked down upon with that familiar gaze of a noble; and still, she finds their heavy glares just. This time though, it’s not about her station and birth, it’s based on how she carries herself, especially when Clair introduces her as the Lady of Ram Village.

Every offence, from the rattle of her teacup against the saucer or how she sits without her ankles crossed begin to pile up. All these minor slip-ups, these quick mistakes, rack up and catch the sharpened and honed eyes of the older court ladies.

As if on cue, Clair says she needs to investigate something or other with Faye and takes her by the wrist. They shuffle awkwardly out of the tea room, politely shutting the door behind them. Faye‘s arms lock together behind her back as Clair puts her under her own critical gaze. It doesn’t hurt any less if it comes from a friend.

“Faye, your dress is... um.” She searches for polite words, something she’s been trying to work at in the last few weeks. “Well I thought I told you to dress nicely.”

“I did.” Faye says, glancing down at her pink dress. “Is there something wrong with this dress?”

Clair frowns, her eyes narrowing. “Yes. I thought you had other dresses, ones more suitable for a formal gathering. Why didn’t you say anything to me?”

“I thought it would be fine.”

“Well it’s not.”

“You’re not the first to tell me that.” Faye says, thinking of the harsh gazes and silent seething words.

“Well if I’m not the first, shouldn’t you change?Hm?” She asks. “We’re ladies of court, we’re to be held to a certain standard.”

Faye frowns. “So? It’s a new era in Valentia, I don’t think I should rely on a big dress to say that I’m a lady.” She says, slowly adding. “In fact, I’m just a kid from a little village.”

“Well, unfortunately they see you as a lady, not just a village woman.” Clair says with a thin frown. She turns on her heel, her long skirt following after her. “You should go back to my room and change. There should be something in my wardrobe.”

“I’m not doing that.” Faye says.

Clair’s brow furrows. “You do want to be at this gathering, correct?”

“You’re the one who wanted me to come to this stupid tea.”

“Well forgive me for wanting to raise my friend’s spirits. I suppose I am a bad friend.” Clair says, bitterness tampering with her tone. Her hands find the edge of her skirt, pulling it up so she doesn’t trip. “Change your attire and join or not, I do not care.”

She disappears into the tea room, leaving Faye alone in the hallway. She feels her throat seize and grow tighter and her stomach drop.

* * *

A week passes and Clair keeps her distance from Faye. Her devotion to old Zofian traditions and standards is crippling to their friendship. Morning rides on her pegasus stop and afternoons in town shopping grind to a halt. Neither Clair or Faye make an effort to address the problem or even apologize and a rift grows between the two. Her only consistent friend in the castle leaves her.

Faye keeps to herself mostly, taking to long walks in the woods that surround the southern palace that last from the early morning to the late afternoon. Occasionally, she’ll come back and practice with her sword on the dummies left out on the training grounds.

The woods grant her life and excitement. She watches deer run from hunters and walks through brooks that lead into rivers and feed into the sea. She can feel Mila’s blessings still run through the woods; the fauna all have enough to eat and feel holier than many people who run the country. Her days are filled with the same childhood wonder she’d had back in Ram.

Tobin notices her disappearances after she returns at sundown with leaves in her hair and dirt on her dress—still the pink one complete with the brown cape, she’s out to prove a point. “You growing a garden or something, Wildflower?” He asks when their cross paths in the palace.

“No, why do you ask?” She says, her face flush from running.

“Because you look like you’ve been rolling in dirt.” He laughs. “I thought you were 21, not 11...”

She feels her throat tighten but forces a smile. “I’ve just been exploring.” She says. “There’s so much to see outside the castle walls.”

“And you’re being safe?”

She conjures a flame in the palm of her hand. “My black magic still works.” 

“You should wear a shield though.” Eventually he adds, “or maybe travel with Clair or someone.”

She closes her fist and the flame dies. Faye frowns as his brow furrows. “Wait, didn’t Gray say something about you two... I think you had a falling out right?”

“A silly disagreement.”

“Then make up.”

“It’s not that simple with Clair. You know that.” Faye says. She looks for something else to focus on—a suit of armour, the new banners, a portrait, anything but his face.

“Sure it isn’t.” Tobin says, nudging her shoulder. “What happened?”

Faye sighs. “She invited me to tea and I wore the wrong thing. It really bothered her.”

“Just make up like you’d make up with me.”

“Last time we fought I threw spells at you and you ran away on your horse.” She says. A smirk plays on her lips.

“See! Do that! Clair can fly way faster on her pegasus.” She shakes head and rolls her eyes, a smile crossing her face. “There we go.”

“What?” She says defensively.

“I just wanted to see you smile, Wildflower.” She glows with a blush as he takes her hand. He plants another kiss on her forehead. “And for the record, I think you look adorable in your old dresses. C’mon. I think I’ve got something to fix that problem.”

Tobin takes her by the hand, pulling her upstairs, past her quarters. She follows diligently, smile on her lips as he pulls her into one of the many studies. Books line the walls, maps of the continent spread out in front of large table. He shuts the door behind them as she examines the topography of Valentia.

At first, he’s playful, eyes lingering on her dress and then trailing up to her face. His fingers intertwine between hers, his other hand touching the small of her back to pull her close. She lets out a thin little giggle, something short and playful that fills the study with something other than silence. He kisses her, slowly and gently with a hunger that grows steadily, lips moving from hers to her jawline and towards her neck.

“You look fresh out of the village.” He says, and she feels the brass clasp of her cape move against her flushing skin. “Was your trip good?”

She’s almost breathless. “I miss it,” she says as his head nestles in her hair, kissing her neck again. “Getting up early, tending to the crops...“ her thoughts are stopped by breathless little giggles. Her arms loop around his shoulders.

“Close your eyes.” He says quietly. Her eyes shut. She hears him move and cloth rustle as he comes closer and takes her hands away from her sides. “Here. Open it.”

Her eyes flutter open, a square of squishy muslin and ribbon in her hands. She pulls away the ribbon and the wrapping comes apart. He laughs as a dress slips out onto the floor. It’s light pink and modest and long and looks exactly like what Clair and Mathilda wear. A tight-lipped smile crosses her lips as she draws a thin breath.

He swipes up the dress, handing it back to her. “You like it?” He asks hopefully, his cheeks still pink with hope.

She holds it up, looking at the pretty flowers embroidered on the cuffs—little violets, her favourite flower. It’s got a tall collar, and many many layers that she can already feel sweat crawling down her spine.

“It’s pretty.” She says politely. He’s too oblivious to catch her discontent. He moves her hands so they meet her shoulders, the dress wavering over her body.

“You’ll look great in it.” He says, brow furrowing. His hand runs along her scalp, pulling her loose braids away from her face. “Maybe pull your hair back for a change?”

She nods, folding it in two as he reaches for her hand again. “Come on, I’d like to see you in it.” He says, pulling her out of the study. She feels her throat grow tight again, becoming hard to swallow like it’s closing over on itself. She opens her mouth to suck back a breath, and sees an inky-black blob slipping out, vile words moving onto her tongue. It’s as black as night and gives off the same malevolent aura as black magic. “I actually—“

He turns around with a hopeful smile. He’s so clueless, so happy to see her reaction; it sends the thing clambering back into her mouth, angrily prodding at the back of her teeth. Her eyes grow wide as she realizes he cannot see the disgusting thing that came from her mouth. “I actually love it.” She says forcing a smile.

He smiles harder, beginning to walk again. Her throat feels tight and the dress is slung over her arm, feeling heavier with each step.

* * *

The glitter of postwar began to fade and the Deliverance and Pilgrimage began to break off into separate winding paths. Some stayed in the court and by the King and Queen’s side while others returned to their native homes, went abroad or disappeared across the now-null borders.

She had always assumed that they would return to Ram Village after the war. At first she’d hoped with Alm, but was soon content on her own. That dream of Ram never left, not even when Tobin came into her life. Even when she resigned from the Brotherhood of Knights and he moved up further in their ranks; a decision that put them at odds but was smoothed over with insistence of it’s brevity and pretty promises that she couldn’t resist.

“We’ll go back to Ram often.” He’d said when she asked about it one night after breathless kisses and whispered promises. His fingers tangled in her messy plaits, as she curled into him, playing with the loose buttons of his shirt.

“Really?” She asked, ever ready to give anything. “It won’t be too much?”

“No, we can manage it. I’m sure there will be time.” He said. Promised, technically. Promises that were never realized and instead fulfilled on her own.

They relocated to the Southern Outpost later that year, where Tobin was promoted as the commander. The first time she stepped inside, she could’ve sworn it wasn’t the same dirty outpost they’d liberated ages ago. It’s clean and kept, no more weapons scattering the ground beneath their feet, and the blue Zofian banners have been replaced with red flags, a symbol of unification.

The Southern Outpost isn’t that far from Ram. She can even see past Ram Valley and out into Fleecer’s forest if she squints hard enough. Ivy and wildflowers grow along the brick and mortar of the outpost walls.

It’s surprising. She’d thought it would be the same dingy outpost, but its quite different from her memory. Perhaps it’s tattered, or maybe it’s blocked out from all the fighting, but the four walls of the Outpost doesn’t keep her interest for long. Soon the longing for Ram came, no matter how close she was to it. While she was grateful for the short distance between the Outpost and Ram, it’s still a distance. She often took trips by herself, as Tobin couldn’t leave the Outpost for long. And although they’re so close to home and she takes these trips often, she feels more homesick than ever. She misses Ram with an unquenchable thirst. Every short visit satisfies her for a few days, never fully sates the desire to go home. She misses the simple early mornings and quiet evenings; seeing the same ladies by the well in the afternoon, the workers going off to Ram Woods to chop lumber, kids playing and the chickens that will be a supper that night or the next. No one else seems to miss it as much as she does, but she’s not surprised.

There’s a certain disdain that fills the air when they talk about Ram in the company of their old friends. Gray, who already claimed to have no desire to go back to Ram, is clear that he doesn’t want anything from it when Faye accompanies Tobin to the southern palace for briefings. Even in the short meetings Faye had with Alm and Celica, they mention how they do not miss their simple home, and she suspects that Tobin sympathizes with them. When they even mention their tiny village, it’s backhanded— silly old Ram, the hovel of heroes—something that makes her fall silent when they asked how her last visit went. It makes her wonder if they know how hypocritical they are—the common villagers who challenged the yoke of nobility such a short time ago.

She pretends to not mind, to ignore their discontent with their home, but in truth out only makes her question if they cared about it in the first place. She’s mentioned to Tobin about returning to Ram Village for a visit from the two of them. Both their parents already know of their engagement, but they still want to see the two happy and hale and in love. In fact, the most visit she’s returning from she told both her parents and his.

“Well, where is he?” Her mother asked impatiently.

“He’s working.” Faye said with a gaze on the old hardwood floor, scored with marks from chairs moving back and forth. The three were seated in the living room, which had felt much smaller than before. “He couldn’t cut out the time for a lengthy visit.”

“Ah.” Her father said. “I’m impressed he’s so dedicated. He’ll be able to take good care of my pride and joy.”

She rolled her eyes as he stood and kissed her forehead. “He really couldn’t spare the day?” Her mother asked and her brow furrowed. “He must have changed. I remember when you were all blue over His Highness and he stayed around for the entire day with you.” She says, voice dropping. “He doesn’t sound like the same boy we once knew.”

“I’ll admit he has changed but I do love him.” Faye said firmly, staring into her tea cup. The inky black thing is gone, like a wintertime cold. “He makes me feel good about myself, lets me know I’m more than a soldier.”

Her mother smiled and crooned happily. “I’m glad he brings such joy to your life.” She said. “You’ll have to bring him home so we can have a nice dinner and welcome him as our son-in-law.”

She plans to mention it to him when she returns to the outpost. She knows he’ll nod and agree that he wants to go home before hurrying off to train recruits or sit in another aimless strategy meeting.

She wonders if it’s always going to be this way—him working hard as a knight in the Brotherhood, and she, waiting lazily for him to return. She wonders if it was right to lower her sword from the Brotherhood, if she’d be a commander like him had she still been a soldier. She passes through the last of the thick brush leading up to the Outpost. The landscape bleeds into rolling plains that go on for ages, meeting at the sea and the shore. In the distance, where the Outpost looms, she notices more soldiers than usual. She picks up her pace, adjusting the basket on her arm. She tucks the cloth over a bread knot she’d made that morning and a bottle of wine amongst other goodies. As she moves closer to the Outpost, she notices the soldiers are moving limp bodies.

Her basket almost falls to the ground as she yells at a guard to tell her what happened. “W-We were attacked by pirates milady!” He says nervously, standing at attention. She rushes past, into the Outpost and up the stairs.

It’s loud and chaotic. The Outpost isn’t impressively clean or organized anymore; weapons are returned to the floor, tables lined up with injured and supplies. Many wounded are being taken care of—wrapping themselves in gauze as they go to clean up the mess outside. She hurries up the steps, running down the hallway and bursting into his chamber.

He sits over the side of his bed, feet firmly on the ground and his head bent down until she enters. The soldier who she’s entrusted with her letters to Ram sits with him. _She must have joined us to the Outpost,_ Faye thinks as the soldier holds gauze to staunch his wounds while he hides a black eye behind his hand. They both look to Faye, like deer in the eyes of a hunter. “Out.” She orders to the soldier.

The mercenary bows her head as she leaves. Faye doesn’t wait until the door closes to kneels in front of him.

“Welcome back, Wildflower.” He says, voice hoarse. He was probably screaming orders for Gods-know how long. She frowns bitterly, practically throwing her basket of goodies into the shelves of his armoire where the embroidered handkerchief sits, unused and forgotten.

“Why didn’t you send a messenger?” She asks, practically ripping off her travelling cloak and throwing her plaits over her shoulders. She’s trying to remember white magic incantations but all she can think of is how angry she is.

He moves, wincing. She catches sight of more bruises on his arms. She can sense broken ribs beneath his skin. “I didn’t want to worry you. Or waste time. We stopped the enemy from reaching the south.” He says.

“I can fight though,“ she argues, technically as ally and not apart of their army. She searches through the medical kit that splayed on the side of his bed. He winces as she rips away the used gauze the soldier had pressed to his wounds. She folds over cotton patches, telling him to take a deep breath as she holds fresh cotton against his wounds.

“I didn’t want to take away from your trip.” He says with a grimace.

She stares at him dumbly. She feels her throat grow tight and aches again. Something pokes it’s nasty head through her teeth for a second. It taints her words with toxicity. “I... Are you stupid?”

He frowns, staying silent as she tilts his chin towards her. “My trip doesn’t matter, not when I come back to find you like this.” She says, biting that monster in her throat away. She presses her forehead against his. “You stupid, stupid boy.”

He stays quiet and she begins to prioritize his injuries. Alcohol seeps into his skin, making him wince more and suck back thin breaths as she quietly tells him to hold still. She presses her hands into his chest, the thin fabric of his uniform separating his wounds from her palms. She breathes out the recovery spell, white magic filling the room with a heavenly glow. The pain leaves him, his bruises and cuts fading back to pink skin and moves to her, swelling and slashing at her heart.

She lets a breath escape her lips, the magic draining her of energy. Yet the thing in her throat lashes more, wishing to berate him for his stupidity and thinking that she was not needed. He’s speaking but she can’t hear him, she doesn’t want to. She collapses into his legs, clutching her arms around his waist. She can hear him apologize over and over again as she works up the strength to move herself up onto the bed and rest. She moves upwards, sitting in his lap, her fingers knotting in his hair. She presses her forehead against his, her hands curving against his neck, cheeks, ears with nervous intent, trying to tether her to him.

“Wildflower, forgive me,” he says weakly, eyes shut and brow knitted. She studies his face. The features she knew so well—like the faded line of freckles across his cheeks or curled edges of his bluntly-cut hair and the bump at the top his sharp nose—they all fade into that of a regular soldier. She feels the black blob resurface in the back of her mouth, slippery and slimy and awful and making her throat ache. When he pleads again for her forgiveness, she feels it lurch forwards, towards her lips as she shuts her mouth, gritting her teeth tight.

He moves in closer, trying to kiss her cheek. She moves away, instead pressing her head to the crook between collarbone and neck, her face glowing with the heat of white magic. Deep in her chest, she fights the feeling that her bread braid will go stale.

* * *

In the span of a split second, Faye catches herself being forced into fake happiness.

She first noticed it when she was tending to her newly-planted garden. She’d bought the seeds for carrots and a berry bush and some sunflowers from the little market near the Outpost. The merchant had promised lasting foods and a beautiful harvest, no matter if another drought came.

Although they had plenty at the outpost, this was to sate a silent hunger she had; a garden of her own in the yard of her own, back in Ram Village. But that dream hadn’t come true yet, and so she had her makeshift garden until the time came. Something to tide her over and keep her dreaming.

She’d planted them a week ago and their little green heads and beads had pushed through the earth already. She smiled at them, fed them with her love and spoke to them as if they were her children and she were their mother. She waters them with her watering can, smiling as Tobin bumps her elbow playfully.

“What are those?” He asks, his shadow blocking out the sun for her sunflowers, her most prized crop. His brow furrows further when he recognizes his overalls on her. “And that doin’ on you?”

“It’s my garden.” She says, pointing to tiny sprouts and green shoots. “I’ve always wanted one.”

“It’s cute.” He says, before pointing to his yellow overalls. “And those?”

“I thought you wouldn’t mind.” She says, a hand touching the metal buckle. She’d found them in his drawers after an evening cuddle and taken them when he wasn’t looking. “You haven’t worn them in ages.”

“You look cute in them.” He says, a smile crossing his face. He pulls her into his side, planting a kiss on forehead. He looks at her garden. “But...”

“But?” She echoes.

“I don’t think the garden will last.” He says with a pitiful sigh. “The soldiers will probably trample it before you can get flowers or food from it.”

Her brow furrows. “You could just order them to steer clear.” She says.

“It’s not that simple, Wildflower.” He says. He doesn’t give a reason and she doesn’t ask for one. She lets it die, like many of their arguments and conversations do.

She nods, glancing to the bright little sprouts. “Well, then that’s another thing to look forwards to when we go back to Ram.” She says.

“Exactly,” He adds, rubbing her shoulder.

She leans closer, her gaze trailing up hopefully. “When... do you think we’ll go back?” She asks. She’s hopeful for a different answer than a shrug or mumbled words, something she’s seen often after the other times she’s asked.

She hears him sigh again. “Let’s just get the wedding in order.” He says. “Then I’ll talk to our king about my posting and see if I can get a reprieve.”

Her brow furrows further. “A reprieve?”

“I can’t be gone for that long.” He says, looking to her. “You do know that right?”

“I thought this was temporary.” She says, shifting away from him. “Like a stint to make money. I thought we were going back to Ram Village together, to begin a life there.”

“I can’t just run off now,” he says, voice straining for words. “I have responsibilities as knight in the Brotherhood.”

“But—“

“Just drop it, honey.” He says, his voice tired and thin and angry. Quickly, he apologizes. “Sorry, I’m just tired. There’s a lot of—“

“It’s alright.” Faye says. She feels the black thing poke at her tongue—_it’s not alright, it’s not fine,_ it pleads. But instead she nods and gives him a forced smile, giving herself reasons to be happy. “It’s completely fine. We’re needed here and that’s that.”

He gives her another look before pressing a quick and empty kiss to her lips. “I have a meeting to go to.” He says. “I’ll see you tonight, Wildflower.”

She nods as they say farewell. She turns back to her garden, reaching for the watering can again and mimics the blessings Mila had given them. While such things normally give her peace, she only feels annoyance and resentment now and anger at this dreary outpost and at him. She realizes as the water rains over her little berry bush that she’s no longer truly happy, just a force-fed joy from her mind and to the placid smile on her face.

* * *

Her sunflowers had bloomed and lived for a day, right before the infantry snapped their stems underneath their heavy boots. She found them crumpled and their green veins on the ground. Her berry bush and carrots had died before, stomped to the ground by the cavalry, but her sunflowers living for longer than she or Tobin had thought. She brought the heads in and gave them a home on her nightstand. She glances at them, the bright yellow turned dull grey and withered like old skin.

Her sheets are pulled to her knees, entangling around her legs. She’s back in his overalls, not caring about the dirt that stains her bedsheets. They smell of him, the old him, like chopped wood and barn and fresh bread—the old him. The one who brought her wildflowers and confessed his love, who claimed to love her just as she was. Not the one who commands the outpost, who wishes for this wedding to be traditional with a gold ring and flower bouquets and a much too frumpy dress and Gods... A courtship that never ended.

She loves him. He loves her. So why is she left with this hollowness?

_I should have seen it coming._ She thinks, laying back in her bed. Her brown cape fans out behind her. She’s pulled it out from hiding, something as a cursory comfort in these trying times.

This room is hundreds of times nicer than any one in Ram, but it’s not comfortable. It’s too fluffy and too hot at the same time, the sheets suffocating her when she sleeps. The pillows hide her stray tears as she rolls over in her sheets at night.

She thinks of how there’s little to no talk of the future or anything past these outpost walls. She doesn’t mention Ram anymore or the simple life she’d pictured for them. The farm and gardens she’d dreamed of are gone, let alone the thoughts of anything but this awful outpost. All they speak of is the day’s training and the new recruits he trains and how ornery his steed Rosanne has become after war service. She doesn’t talk of how lonely she’s become and how she barely has the strength to summon white magic anymore, or about how she feels she’s regressing into the person she was before the war, both stubborn and sluggish. Many of their conversations end in awkward silence brought on by wedding talk. He wants it to be traditional—done up in a church and with everyone, but she doesn’t care. He’s even stopped talking about having it in Ram Village. She finds herself not caring about much since arriving here. She’s just homesick and worn and she knows what lies at the end of this path.

She gets up from her bed, taking the dead sunflower heads in her hands. She goes to the window, unlatching it. The glass doors sway open, hitting against the brick of the outpost with a harsh ping! The cold air hits her, but she feels nothing. She hauls her arm back and throws them, one by one, out into the dead of night. A few tears run down her face as she throws one, two, three of them go out the window and clutches the sill with all her might. She pulls back a breath, realizing that her dead sunflowers are like her dreams of Ram and him.

* * *

She feels a shred of love again, cutting through this intense depression as he holds her close. She’s cold under these sheets, but his warmth invades her body, slicing through her chill. Their arms tether them together, embraced like a dance with their hands tied in between each other’s. 

It’s quiet in his chamber, save for the calls of nightbirds outside the window. Their legs are entangled together, her body curled into his, trying to gain any warmth and love he offers, anything to combat these awful feelings and the black thing living at the back of her throat. She’s thankful that it’s been quiet these days.

She knows what the other soldiers say. They’re living in sin, they’re unholy, they bring shame to the Valentian court. And she, as a woman who served Mila, should carry herself in a more vestal and demure way. But she doesn’t care. The thoughts of others have never bothered her, and they certainly won’t start to now. She enjoys these somewhat violet delights that fill her dull life with a certain belief that they’re still in love. Sometimes they’ll embrace in the war room—finding another use for the tactician’s desk—and outside at the barn between the stalls with peppery kisses on the steep slopes of his neck and collarbone and between the valley of her chest. But most of their illicit unions occur in the quiet comfort of his chamber where no one can hear their breathless little promises and even smaller deaths. 

They don’t share a bed for the full night, at least not yet. Such a sight would make the other soldiers wonder how holy either of them are. He said something about living up to the standard of the elders, who shared a bed only with their wedded wives. Although Faye had seen a few soldiers walking out from bordellos when coming back from town.

Many guards posted to his and her chambers turn a blind eye when they see her creeping away in the dead of night. It was probably by his orders to not make such remarks or notice his betrothed’s ghost-like appearance.

So she ignores the words that lash at her mind and the black thing that looms somewhere in her body. Instead she thinks about the warmth that blooms in her face, her chest, her stomach. She’s half-falling asleep as he runs a hand through her messy hair, undone from their usual plaits. A satisfied and quiet moan escapes her lips.

This is what she fell in love with—the warmth of her best friend, the tenderness of holding him close and his gentle breath speaking her name. Not a proud cavalier and the promise of a high title.

She thinks about returning to Ram Village with him. Alone, when he is gone training or trying to decipher a plan to counter the newest bandit scourge, she’ll pleasure herself with the fantasy of a simple life, hunting their own food and living off the land. It’s such a beautiful little thing, but she knows that it’s far away.

“Wildflower?” His voice is quiet, soft. She swears she hears the same boy who proposed to her mid-battle; not the husky-voiced commander who she’s engaged to.

“Mmh.” She murmurs, desperately wanting to fall asleep in his arms and make this feeling last longer.

“Wildflower,” he says, softer and more playful this time. His nose brushes against her forehead a few times and she tiredly looks up. “Hey sleepyhead.”

“I was just enjoying a little nap,” she says tiredly.

And then he says it. “I love you” with a little smile in the crook of his lips. It summons a shiver down her spine as she pulls herself closer to him. The tender, silly boy she’d fallen for.

She’s all blushed and romantic tonight. He’d offered her the engagement ring proper—bended knee and calling her by her full name and all. It’s quite pretty, but heavy beyond compare. “It’s pure gold.” He said as he kissed at her neck, moving away the high collar of the dress he’d bought her. There’s an engraving of a flower vine on the inside, something that had to be sent away to a merchant in Zofia Harbour. After he’d asked her, she’d slipped the ring on and her dress off.

His words make her blush, turn pink as the Zofian skies at sunset. Her eyes drift to his as he kisses her again, it’s lazy and tired and sweet. Her eyes shut, cuddling further into him.

But that proud cavalier comes out again as he presses his lips against her head. He tells of her a ball in the capital, not a long way from their outpost. It makes her wake with tired eyes.

“King Alm wants us there.” He says, maintaining that soft and gentle voice. “It’s sure to be fun. And we could see Clair and Gray and Silque and everyone again,”

The warmth fades, the cold returning with a vicious vengeance. The slippery black monster surges up her throat, growing tight and pained. She sits up with a tired sigh, the freezing night air hungrily attacking her. He props himself on his elbows, his warm hand meets her bare back in comfort. He leans into her upper arm, studying her face.

His brow furrows as she sucks back a breath, rubbing at her face. The ring hits her nose and she winces at the pain. “Do you not want to go?” He asks finally.

She feels the black thing crawl up her throat and graze her tongue, trying to poison her words. She swallows and shakes her head. “No, not that. I just realized how late it is. What will people think?” She forces a smile.

Her cold fingers graze his jaw, something to comfort him; he’s satisfied with it, nods, bending her digits down. She throws her legs over the side of his bed, pulling away one the sheets like it’s one of the long battle-gowns of their deceased ancestors. She slips behind his dressing divider, finding that awful stiff dress he insists looks pretty on her.

“So you want to go?” He asks, husky voice piercing the air again.

_Clueless idiot_. She thinks bitterly, the black monster tainting her words. She lets out a silent sigh. The inky evil slips from her gaping mouth and she gasps, dropping the sheet.

“Wildflower? You all right?” He asks, voice nervous. She can hear him get up.

She grabs it—although it’s invisible to his eyes—shoving it back into her mouth, swallowing it back. “Just tired, love.” She says, pulling up her discarded undergarments and the stiff dress. She doesn’t bother with the line of buttons along her spine that will come undone in seconds. She pulls her familiar brown cape around the back of it, hiding her skin.

“Of course I want to,” she says softly. Her teeth are grit, not allowing the horrible inky words to escape. She steps out from behind the divider. “I’d like nothing more than it.”

He’s wrapped a sheet around his waist. He reaches up, pulling her hair into a long ponytail over her shoulder. He knots it with the ribbon on his nightstand. Faye blushes. “Good. You’ll get to show off that ring. And I’ll get to show off my blushing bride,” He says with a soft smile, leaning in for another kiss, hungry that beckons her back to the bed.

“I have to go.” She says, pulling away for a breath.

“I know.” He says, reaching for her hand. He presses a few kisses into her palm and along the veins in her wrist. A safekeeping—each time she’d miss him she’d open her hand and there he’d be. “I’ll see you in the morning, Wildflower.”

She flushes, pulling away from him and moving to the door. She opens it and closes just as quickly, the guards outside, not making a sound and looking at the lady. She walks down the other end of the hall, posts and candles lit dimly. She feels the guards’ eyes on her; and she continues on, unfazed by their unspoken words of “whore”, “pariah” and “sinner” on their quiet tongues and screaming minds.

The same guard she saw tending to Tobin’s wounds is outside her chamber tonight. She stands at attention. “Good evening milady.” She says as Faye flushes.

“Good evening.” She says, drawing the cape tighter around herself. She hasn’t cared about the words of others for ages, but suddenly feels anxiety. The guard reaches for her doorknob, opening the chamber for her. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome milady.” She says. Under her breath, Faye hears her say: “Mila help her soul.”

“Excuse me?” Faye says just as quietly. She turns on her heel.

The guard, a pretty young thing with a dark braid glances to her. She stands stiffly for a moment, hand pulling away from the knob. She salutes her again. “Forgive me milady, but I sympathize with your emotions.”

Faye stays quiet. “I don’t like my title.” She says. “And what do you know of my emotions?”

“Faye, then.” The guard says in a quiet voice. Her light eyes glint with a certain wisdom unfound in many of her young age.  
“I know of them because I have felt them too. I made choices not for my own benefit, but for my lover’s. And when I was left unsatisfied, there was no one else to blame but myself. And I sense that is the rift I experienced is the same for you and Sir Tobin.”

Faye flushes. “Maybe.” She says. The black thing at the back of her throat prods at her tongue as she swallows hard.

“I would suggest that you follow your own path. No matter how painful parting may be. Not to... discomfort my commanding officer.” The guard stands tall, returning to another salute. Her eyes glaze over with that same vigilance once again. “Sleep well, Faye.” She says.

“You too.” Faye says, shutting the chamber door behind her.

* * *

Faye knows she’s the odd one out of this ball. Her pink dress is too simple, too plain, in this sea of long trains and tight corsets. Her dress is petticoats too small, falling flat against the subtle curves she has.

She’s got a crown of wildflowers in her hair, picked and woven by her that morning while Tobin and Gray sparred in the courtyard. She watched from a distance as they fought, swords clashing. Their fight was not as noble as others she’d seen—a bastardization of Zofian dodges, Rigelian thrusts and village tricks they’d picked up from Mycen and the travels in the Deliverance.

She’d already asked to try Gray’s hand but he shut her down before she could even finish her sentence. “Nah Faye, I don’t want a hard win,” he said before patting Tobin’s shoulder. It was backhanded compliment to her strength, something that angered the black thing in her throat.

So instead she’d picked wildflowers from the edge of the palace garden—tiny little buds of blue and purple and white—bringing a handful back to her chamber. She’d refused help dressing or preparing for the ball that night, not wanting strangers’ or even Clair’s hands on her body or in her hair.

She spent the afternoon ripping apart the ridiculous pink ball gown, uncovering the original frame from beneath large petticoats and a corset that smothered her. With every minor move, every tiny revision, the original shape became more and more extenuated until it was nothing more than a thin skirt with a slip underneath. Sleeves and high collars were gone with a snip of her scissors, replaced with a rolled set of shoulder-sleeves and a dropped back. She sewed the excess material into a sash and knotted it around her waist with a large bow.

Tobin’s brow furrows when he finds her waiting outside his chamber, arms latched behind her back in a wallflowerish way. “What happened?” He asks, barely hiding confusion and discontent. His eyes scan her in an accusing way, looking for the old dress they purchased as if it would pop out at him.

“I made some alterations.” She says as he offers his arm for her to take.

“At the last second?” He asks with obvious displeasure.

Faye ignores it, feigning ignorance. Her arms broke from their cross as a hand moved down the new hem of her dress. “There was a pull in the fabric.” She lies lamely, her arm snaking around Tobin’s.

“Well it looks...” he struggles for a word, angering the inky evil thing in her throat. “Different.”

_Different_. Her mind echoed at her annoyedly. She swallowed back, quelling it with bitter thoughts about his cluelessness, his oblivious nature and the silent, seething resentment that had been bothering her since they arrived at the castle. Maybe even the Outpost.

“Wait,” he says, stopping dead in his tracks. He looks her over with a careful eye. “You’re missing your sash.”

He points to the red silk that stretches across his chest. It glitters with silver and gold medallions from the king and queen. She fights a frown as she turns her gaze to the ground, focusing on the red carpets and fine tile floor. “Oh. I must’ve left it at the outpost.” She lies. It’s buried in her single pack of clothes, it’s pins poking through the canvas of her bag. She hates how it feels across her chest, how heavy it weighs on her body. She almost hates it as much as she hates the Outpost and the coldness in it.

He frowns. “I could’ve sworn I saw it in your bag.” he says, brow furrowing.

His cluelessness frustrates her and the inky thing begins to poison her words again. “Well I guess you were wrong,” she says bitterly, glancing towards him. “I checked several times. It wasn’t there.”

His brow furrows as she looks away from him, staring at the red and gold banners and ornate tapestries and sprawling portraits. He opens his mouth to say something but promptly closes it, keeping his gaze from her. _Coward_. The thing in her mouth says in a voice dripping with disdain.

A brisk silence falls between them as they arrive at the top of the staircase, trumpets bellowing for their arrival. They’re been introduced as Lady Faye and Sir Tobin, both of Ram Village. Her hand weakly clasps around his arm as they descend the stairs.

No matter how many balls or court dates they attend, her anxiety is never sated when she feels those eyes on her. She can’t stand the stares, the glazed eyes that she doesn’t know staring her up and down and drawing their own judgements. She’s usually quiet at these engagements, offering polite “how do you do’s” and thin smiles for as long as necessary before finding a familiar face to hide with. The last few times she’d magnetized to Silque’s side, the elder cleric doing the gossiping for her as she smiled and nodded. But the pretty saint is nowhere to be seen, just a sea of people she does not know the name of.

People she’s unfamiliar with greet them with smiles and polite conversation. Tobin takes the initiative she lacks, greeting people he doesn’t know like a social butterfly. He gives a smile she’s never seen, uses his commander’s voice to introduce her as his bride-to-be, then tells of his position at the Southern Outpost when asked. He lets the others speak, nodding and listening intently while as she does is smile blankly.

A young lady with black curls and a collar of shiny black feathers smiles when Tobin introduces her as a lady of the neighbouring continent. “Darling, what is that dress?” She asks, pointing her fan up and down at Faye’s gown. Her jade eyes prod with mischief and utter playfulness.

Tobin can’t cover this one, instead smiling as Faye stumbles to answer the question. Her mind scrambles for words, all too far fetched or awkward. “I had a last minute change.” She decides at last.

The plumed lady smirks. “It’s something different all right.” She says, looking to her consort with a thin smirk as she points her fan to the cowled shoulders and the thin skirt of her gown. “Did you sew it all yourself?”

Faye frowns. Before she can even censor her thoughts, the black creature taints her words. “I did.” She says politely, forcing a smile. “And did you kill a bird yourself to make that shrug or did it just die at your feet?”

Tobin’s placid smile fades as the woman gasps. Her companion laughs, as she blushes in anger. The plumed lady shoves her fan in Faye’s face. “You little backwoods-wench!”

Faye can’t help but smile looking at how tightly she’s wound. It fades in a second’s notice when she hears Tobin stumbling to apologize and lie about her health effecting her speech. He takes her by the arm. “D-Darling, I think you need something to drink,” He says before apologizing again and taking her by the arm. She frowns as he pulls her away, hiding under an arch with other men-less ladies and women-less gentlemen.

“What’s gotten into you?” He says quietly and with obvious displeasure. His eyes glint with annoyance. “First the dress then the talk?”

“She insulted me,” Faye says. Her gaze narrows on him, her hands balling into fists. “And you weren’t saying anything. I thought you’d stand up for me!”

He frowns. “She’s a guest to the continent and it’s not my place!” He says. “Would you talk to Alm or Celica that way?”

“If they talked to me like that then yes,” she says indignantly.

“No you wouldn’t. They’re your king and queen!” He argues. They begin to garner the attention of the guests and he flushes, fearing treason.

“But they were my friends first!” She barks back. The inky evil thing poisons her words, her mind. They come out too quickly and she can’t help it.

He lowers his voice. “Wildflower, just be polite.” He says quietly.

“You keep ordering me around like one of your men.” She says. “Is that all I am to you? A soldier?”

He frowns, looking away. “No. Of course not.” He says quietly, almost defeated.

Faye crosses her arms over her chest. “Because it feels like that. It feels like I’m only—“

“There you two are,” A familiar voice chimes, smiling. They freeze in mid-argument as Clair smiles jauntily at them. She’s come alive in the busy ballroom with a bright smile on her face and wide eyes. _She must love these events,_ Faye thinks tiredly.

“Hey Clair!” He says. “Remember the lady of Ram?”

She frowns at the obvious jab. “Faye is that you under all... um... that?” Clair asks, peering closer. There’s still an awkwardness from their disagreement. “What a simply cute gown.”

“My husband-to-be hates it.” She says bluntly, the thing in her throat looking to embarrass him. He groans tiredly, shaking his head.

He frowns. “Because you ruined a gown that was expensive.” He says.

She looks over to him with a frown. “‘Ruined’?” She echoes.

Clair steps between the two with a thin smile. Her silk and satin gown contrasts the gabardine and careful stitches of Faye’s dress. “Tobin, I recall that Gray was looking for you... He was just speaking with my dear brother.” She says. Her smile growing tighter as she looks for him to leave.

She watches his eyes flicker from Clair and down to her. His brow furrows as he takes a small step backwards. She feels the thing in her throat lunge, _Running away now? What are you, a coward?_It cries out angrily at him, and says the same to her.

He nods. “I’ll go see what he wants.” Tobin says, looking back to Clair with tired eyes. He disappears into the thick crowd of dancers.

She clears her throat awkwardly as Faye slouches against one of the arches, letting out a sigh. Her hands touch the cool tile, the back of her head hitting it. The pegasus knight turns on her heel to face Faye, narrowing her gaze. Her back is straight and she stands taller than Faye, probably wearing heels. Faye avoids her gaze for a few minutes as Clair stares at her with an annoyed gaze. “Dare I ask how wedded bliss is?” She asks at last.

“I wouldn’t know.” Faye says bitterly, crossing her arms again. “We’ve been planning for two years and nothing’s happened.”

She stands taller, finally getting a good look at Clair who is dressed in a huge ball gown with ornate stitching and long evening gloves. Her hair is piled up into a large bun, a style that many other women wear tonight. A large blue flower is at the front of her hair and with a close glance, Faye can tell it’s a glass clip.

“Oh Faye, how sad.” She says, taking her hand. The satin of her glove is soft against the back of her palm. Faye’s counting down the seconds until she hears the same question that’s bothered her life for the past two years—

“So, have you at least decided a date for your wedding?” Clair asks with a careful tone.

Faye cringes. “I don’t know. He won’t set a date.”

“Are you pushing for one?” Clair asks with a raised brow.

“Not particularly.” Faye says. She notices the contrast between she and Clair’s dresses. Faye’s falls flat against her body, barely hiding her boots—she couldn’t stand the silly heels she’d packed. Clair’s gown fans out in a beautiful circle, pale blue like the full moon.

Clair chooses her words carefully. She lets go of Faye’s hand, watching it fall flat before returning to the standoffish cross over her chest. “Don’t you think you should?” She asks at last.

Faye stays quiet, studying the puffed shoulders of her dress. Clair looks aghast, leaning closer to her and lowering her voice. “Faye, you do want to marry him, don’t you?” She balks with wide eyes.

She feels the vile thing clamber at her tongue, wanting to lash out at Clair now. She can hear the words that it wants to hurl at Clair—_take your own advice you stupid brat._ But Clair is trying to be kind and well-meaning, and while she’s annoyed by her words, its not enough to lash out against her. 

Faye bites her lip, swallows the words back and nods. “I do.” She says.

“Truly?” She presses.

Faye nods, her gaze meeting Clair’s concerned gaze. “I’m sure.” She lies through grit teeth. She forces herself to say it—to believe it—even though she’s not sure of anything anymore.

* * *

There was a fallout after the ball. She’d stayed quieter and just as passive as before. When they returned to the Outpost, he’d tried to make more plans for their wedding, but nothing came from it but shrugs of her shoulders and answers of “_whatever you want darling_”.

He tried earnestly to please her more but she realizes that there’s little he can do.

He had buried himself in his study when she came in with a bag. It was early morning—golden hour. Faye had seriously considered running away for a bit, making him wonder where she was, but decided against it. She still loved him after all, the last thing she wanted to do was burn that bridge.

“What’s that for?” He asked, pointing to the canvas bag as he looked up from a codec.

“I’m going back to Ram for a couple days.” She said. She lifted herself onto the side of his desk, sitting beside his books and papers.

“Again?”

“Nana’s sick,” she lied, quickly adding, “Nothing serious, but I think I should see her.”

“Ah.” He said, looking at her bag again. “You’re leaving this morning?”

“Now, I was just coming for a kiss goodbye.” She said, leaning over his work and shutting her eyes. Instead of a kiss she felt his breath on her skin as he spoke.

“Your Nana liked me right?”

Her brow furrowed, growing annoyed. “Yeah, she likes you just fine.” She said, setting her hand on top of the guide.

“Then I should come see her, right?” He said, meeting her gaze.

“You want to come back to Ram?” She asked, surprised.

He nodded, saying that it had been too long and that he wanted to see his family and hers. It sparked a giddiness in her, drove the black thing that licked at her teeth down to her stomach. He’d hurried away to his chamber, preparing a bag while she readied his steed’s tack.

Barely a yard out of the Outpost bounds, a messenger was sent running, asking where he was going so early in the day. She’d felt the inky black thing attack her throat as he argued with the young messenger. So instead of starting a fight, she’d thrown her pack off of Rosanne’s back and climbed down.

“Go home.” She’d said, forcing a smile as she lugged the bag onto her back.

“But I want to go with you.” He argued.

She held up her hand. “Next time.” She said. “You’re obviously needed here.”

He frowned. “Are you sure?”

“Certain.” She said, taking his hand and bringing it to her lips. She pressed a few kisses into his palm; a sign that she loved him. “I’ll bring back your favourite: Ram Wine.”

He gave her a smile before ordering Rosanne to make his way back to the outpost. She’d waved goodbye before letting a frown escape her lips and continued along the path to Ram Village.

Her trip was quiet, uneventful and for that, it was lovely. She tended to her family’s garden, got to see her Nana and made food with her which calmed her anger and quelled the black thing in her throat. She’d stayed longer, at the demand of some of the village children who wanted to hear about the outpost and see her heal wounds with white magic.

She wakes early the morning she’s set to leave. Her bed—kept the exact same since she’d left for the war—is too hot for her. The sheets that once kept the chilly nights are bay stifle her with heat. She’d laid there for hours, staring at the brick walls and concrete ceiling. She roll over, pushing herself up from the hot bed, the sheets scorching her like a Fire spell is on her fingertips. Her feet still barely graze the cold hardwood floor, the sweaty palms of her feet dangling over the bedside.

It’s strange. Faye had been back to Ram Village more than a dozen times in the past five years, but she’d never had trouble sleeping. The familiarity and softness of the village—her true home—had always calmed her to sleep. She’d always had trouble sleeping in the Outpost, with all it’s noise and problems and constant fear of an ambush from brigands or pirates.

Her eyes graze the room, combing it over finely. Something must have changed to make Ram feel so cold and unlikeike home. The window still has the same crocheted curtains she had made with her mother when she was a child. Her sheets are almost the exact same, the bed always made with an extra blanket over top—she’d always had one, always a little cold ever since she was a child. The same straw doll that her Nana had made her as a little girl sits on the dresser, with her pink ribbons and the comb she’d dreaded as a child. And perched, in the corner is her washbasin and mirror, the stand for it changing as she grew up. She catches herself in the mirror—her eyes dark and ringed and her hair long and messy.

She looks exactly as she did when she was a baby, a child, a little girl and a young lady. She hasn’t changed, not one bit. And no matter how many times someone gives her a dress with a stiff collar, or tells her to say “how do you do” instead of “hello”, she will never change. And it pains her.

She lifts herself off the bed, ties her messy hair into a long braid and pulls a sweater over her nightgown. Her feet tread down the hallway, passing by old family portraits and framed letters from years ago. Her parents have even hung the red sash, decorated with badges and medals from her service in the front room with an old portrait of her. There’s wildflowers in a vase beside it.

She sits in the front room, looking at that tiny shrine made to her. Did her family truly love her still? After running away time and time again, each chasing a love she couldn’t obtain? Or did they resent her, and keep this shrine as a constant reminder that their only child ran away without second thought?

She doesn’t know the answer. Faye wishes she did, but doesn’t.

The floorboards creek quietly as she looks up. The glints of the sunrise brush her nana’s face as turns to her. “I didn’t expect you to be up this early granddaughter,”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Faye says, sliding over on the sofa.

“Enjoying the sunrise?” Her Nana lowers herself beside her. The sofa whines tiredly.

“I forgot how pretty it is. My room is on the west side, so I rarely see it back at the Outpost.”

“It’s good that you came back then. You look pale and weak.”

Her head snaps to her grandmother. “Do I?”

She nods slowly. “You are our Wildflower after all.” She says softly.

The name pains her, even from her grandmother’s lips. “Nana.” She says quietly. Her throat aches with the black thing—it’s not angry or vengeful now, instead tight and sore like the beginning of a cold. “When was that thing set up?” She points to the portrait and sash.

Her eyes follow her hand. “Oh. After you sent it home. The village has seen it.” She smiles and Faye’s cheeks heat with embarrassment. “Everyone was very proud to see one of our bring back glory.”

Her grandmother notices the blush on her face. “Be proud, granddaughter. You’ve done so much for our small home.”

“I don’t care about that.” Faye says quietly. She doubles over into her lap, her braid falling over her shoulder.

“What is wrong Faye?” Her Nana asks. There’s a hand on her back.

She lifts her head, staring at her pink knees. “I don’t care about what I’ve done for our village. I care about my family.” She says quietly. “Do you and Ma and Pa... do you resent me for leaving so quickly?”

The air is silent and cold. The mage looks up to her grandmother who sighs tiredly. A thin smile spreads across her lips as she pats Faye’s back. “Sit up, young lady.” She orders, slowly getting up from the sofa.

The mage takes a shaky breath, swallowing back the ache in her throat. Her hands knit in her lap as her grandmother takes one of the wildflowers from the vase and walks back to the sofa. She holds it out to Faye. “Tell me what this is.”

“It’s a flower.”

“And who made it?”

“The earth.”

Her Nana presses further. “And who made the earth?”

“Mila did.” Faye says.

“Exactly. The Mother made our country and it’s flowers.” Her Nana says softly.

She nods. “The Mother made everything in Zofia.”

“She made everything with a purpose. You should remember that Faye.” She says, twirling the small purple flower. She holds it out to Faye. “She made little wildflowers, just like this one, to grow all over our country so that wherever her children were, they’d have some beauty.”

“So a wildflower’s purpose is to be beautiful?” Faye’s brow furrows tiredly.

“Some having healing powers too. Or poisons or thorns to protect themselves against animals and us.” Her Nana says.

She stays quiet as her Nana points to the vase of flowers. “Many Zofian nobles were taken with the beauty of wildflowers and tried to cultivate them for their own gardens. But when they did plant them in their manors, most withered and died.” She says. “That’s because wildflowers are meant for the wild. They cannot grow and bloom in such tight conditions.”

Faye’s hands tighten, gathering the edges of her nightgown between her fingers. “Really?”

“Yes. It’s how the Mother intended for it to happen. The nobles would eventually have their beautiful gardens with intricate roses and tulips, but we villagers were blessed with wildflowers. They’re hardy and determined and grow wherever they want.” Her Nana smiles, handing the flower to her. “For once grown beneath the bowers of tall trees and at the banks of the rivers, or picked by villagers like us, a wildflower will always be a wildflower.” Faye sighs. “Like you. You will always be our wildflower.”

“Are you and Ma and Pa all right with that?” She asks quietly, her gaze shifting from the flower to her grandmother.

The old woman smiles, her eyes crinkling. “Darling Faye, only wildflowers can bloom in the wild. They determine where their wild is.” She says. “We are proud of you for everything you do.”

Faye bows her head, nodding slowly. She feels a hand on her back, then arms around her shoulders. She breathes a shaky sigh, dropping the violet into her lap, and hugging her grandmother back.

“When do you return to the Outpost?” Her grandmother asks.

Faye pulls away, wiping at tears that threaten to fall. “Today. I have to get some things but then I’ll be going back for while.” She says.

Her Nana’s face brightens. “Oh! That reminds me.” She gets up and hurries to the safekeeping chest by the dining table. She pulls out an envelope and waddles back to the sofa, handing it to Faye. “A saint had stopped in the village looking for you.”

Faye’s brow furrows as she turns it over. Her name is neatly written on the front. “She’d said you served with her in the war.” Her Nana says.

She pulls back the flap. “What was her name?” Faye asks.

Her grandmother rubs her chin, trying to blink back the name into her memory. “Hm... Velvet? Panne? Satine? Something like a fabric...”

“Was it Silque?” She asks suddenly. “Did she have blue hair?”

Her Nana’s face brightens. “Yes! She had an archer with her, I think.” She says before laughing. “I’m not growing senile yet! She left it for you a few weeks ago. Said you wrote her.”

Faye nods. Her heart tightens as she shoves the flap back into the slot. “I did. I like to write her sometimes.” She says. “Silque is a... good friend.”

“I’m glad.” Her grandmother says. She takes the violet from Faye’s lap and pushes it behind her ear. Faye holds the letter tightly and shoves it into her bag when her Nana suggests they go and start some breakfast.

* * *

By late morning Faye gathered the rest of her belongings and the promised wine and began the trek back to the Outpost. The energy and life she’d had in Ram is gone, replaced with tiredness and ache in her bones. Her throat is tight and it hurts to swallow. All the light and energy that had consumed her in Ram fleeted like the birds in Pegastym. While she’d seen worse in her Deliverance days, she lacked the same energy and zeal that she had before.

It’s warm and sunny out, but she feels cold. Her hand grazes her apron pocket, where Silque’s letter hides. She wanted to read it when she was alone and free, not in front of her grandmother or Gods-forbid her parents.

Her feet drag in the dirt and then stop. Faye reaches into the pocket of her apron and pulls out the letter. She drops her bag and hears the bottles of wine slosh as they meet the earth. She stares at Silque’s pretty handwriting for another moment before pulling back open the flap and steadying herself against a tree. Before the ball, she’d written her in secret and asked for guidance, comfort for this loneliness that quelled her. She rips open Silque’s letter, pulling out a long page and feeling her heart tighten as she slows down to read it.

_Dear Faye,_

_I had hoped this would be a letter of happy news, perhaps even a wedding invitation, but alas it is not. It pains me to write to you on such a sombre topic and hear of you in such pain. As a cleric, I am used to easing other’s aches and wounds, but I am afraid I cannot ease yours without further hurting you. That is brought on by this pain, this illness if you will, not your own doing._

_To be painfully blunt, this is something created by your mind, and enriched by stress and isolation. Your surroundings are to blame, not yourself. You say that returning to Ram Village brings you joy but also makes you sad, for Sir Tobin is not with you. Mila’s teachings tell us that we must love every gift she gives us—even if those gifts pain us._

_I cannot give you any concrete cure to this ailment that will not hurt your further. However, it is something that you must figure out on your own will. It pains my heart to know that you feel isolated and depressed. Pray to Mila, ask for her love and guidance. See what her servants say to you._

_I wish I could be there to support you like a proper friend should, but my work in Rigel is not complete. I fear that it will never be complete with what Sir Lukas and Forsyth and Python tell me. But I pray to the Mother and hold hope that one day, I will be able to reunite you on happy circumstance, and I hope it is in the village you hold so dear._

_May Mila’s light shine brightly on your path,_

_Silque_

Her eyes prick with tears as her hand crumples the letter slightly. Faye poured her heart out to Silque, asking for guidance, and she’d said to turn to a dead goddess.

Her throat aches. _What did you really expect? A truthful answer?_She thinks tiredly. Silque is a woman of faith, Faye is a woman of reality. Mila is dead, nothing more than a tiny sprout in the ground outside her temple. Praying to the Mother is useless, she won’t send any miracle or change her dreary circumstance. She didn’t before when Faye restlessly pursued the king,

Yet the mage is at the end of her rope. She’s been trapped in this sadness, this aching emptiness that consumes her, and the black thing that taints every thought of her own. She wishes to be free, to go back to her life before the war, before this dead romance and before this marriage that would never come. Perhaps Silque was right. Maybe she should pray to Mila and see what happens. If she answers with nothing then Faye will not have gained or lost anything.

She wipes at her eyes again. Faye glances around her and hoists one leg up, then the other, grappling up the tree. She perches on one of the branches, squinting for a familiar sight—the shrine just outside their village. It’s not far, she could probably reach it before night fall if she was quick enough.

Faye lowers herself back down to the forest floor. She leans down on her haunches, grabbing the bags she’d dropped. The wine sloshes again as they hit against her back.

She reaches the shrine by nightfall. It’s cold and empty and she draws her brown cape tighter around her shoulders. She’s wearing her old pink dress, something of comfort that she doesn’t wear in the Outpost anymore. This will be the last time she wears it. In the morning she’ll change into the stiff dress and red cloak that subdues her.

The brigands had left the shrine after the war—or at least they weren’t home when she entered. She looks for a provision, something to nibble on as she stares at the idol. She sets her lantern at it’s feet, and pulls the heavy letter out of her apron pocket. She lets a breath escape her lips as she rummages through her bag, her fingers grazing two bottles of Ram Wine. One is for Tobin, the other is for the Idol.

She pulls one out, pulling away the cork and glancing over the letter. On the back, Silque had written what to offer to the Idol for guidance. She’d read it over and over and over, committing it to memory. It’s four simple actions, but she worries that she’ll miss one step. Kneel at the idol, offer a prayer, then a provision and wait for guidance.

Faye’s never been big on religion or praying to Mila for love and guidance. She’d grown used to the daily rites and prayers that she had to perform with Silque and Tatiana when she became a priestess, but it’s been years since she’s knelt at an altar and asked for protection. Yet now she does it willingly, rather than a forced courtesy. She’s begging for some release, some comfort and direction, having grown tired and desperate with this life.

So she kneels on the steps of the Idol pedestal. She clasps her hands together and summons her voice, quiet and thin. “Mother Mila, hear my prayer. I need you to guide me now. I love my beloved, but I cannot see a life in the outpost.” She says tiredly, her eyes flickering up to the Idol’s blank stare. “Please. Tell me what to do.”

She stays silent for a moment before taking the bottle of Ram Wine in her hands and turns it upside down. Tears prick at her eyes, watching as the wine sits there. Usually it would evaporate, absorbed by the Idol as exchange. But it sits there and stains the old stone. She lets a shaky breath escape her lips and hangs her head again.

Quietly, she hears a voice pierce the silence. “Sometimes, it is better to withdraw from a battle if defeat is imminent.” The idol’s voice echoes. “May you always walk in the light of Mila’s blessing.”

Tears prick her eyes again, as she looks up to the golden light encircling the Idol. The wine goes up in vapour, disappearing and leaving only a bloody stain. Her lip quivers as she sits back on her legs, hands falling from her holy clasp.

The words hit her harder than an enemy’s blow. Any hope that she had is gone, crushed by stone reality. She is a woman of war, a woman of reality—she knows that both reason and Mila are telling her to leave.

* * *

Everyone is very kind and polite when Faye returns to the Outpost again. Tobin must have said something to them after she left. The soldiers hold doors open for her, clear the way when she’s walking down from her chamber or the study, bow their heads in both politeness and shame as she passes by. They address Faye as _milady_ and _her grace_, not _her_ or _that girl_, as she’d been known in the Deliverance or even in Ram. But she still yearns for those quietly backhanded words of _she_ and _the idiot girl_.

They’re too nice, in fact. When they see her practicing with her sword, they clear the area. No one wants to spar with her, so both her sword and magic skills grow dull. They won’t let her bake bread or cook even, and the requests for her needle and thread stop completely—even those left back in the castle do not send back their tattered handkerchiefs or torn trousers. It’s as if everyone wants her to be a silent, smiling ghost.

And yet, she is one.

She spends a lot of her days in her chamber, wondering if this will be her life, idly sitting by and listening to her betrothed’s tales of the day. She thinks a lot about the words of the Idol, burning her with every breath she took. She knew that it would happen, she knew it before they’d arrived at the outpost, but she’d known it precisely ever since her sunflowers had died underneath the infantry’s feet. The aching pain in her throat that rarely leaves, the solid ring on her hand weighing her down, the inky black thing that poisons her words.

Faye notices that Tobin has changed too: he tries earnestly to be more attentive, asking about her day, offering her tender kisses on the hand and bringing her fresh roses and tulips every few days. But all his efforts lead to passivity. Their conversations keep dying after he asks what she wants in their wedding, or about her day. She usually responds with “I embroidered”, “I read my tomes again” or “I wrote to my family” and offers nothing else. And when he asks about her opinion on colours for their wedding, just throwing around ideas, she says she’s fine with anything he likes.

Whenever he notices her staring off, face blank as canvas, his brow furrows and he touches her heavy hand. “Something wrong Wildflower?” He asks, noticing how quiet she’s become. She’s come to hate that once-endearing nickname. It tethers her to him, binding her to this awful outpost.

The black thing in her throat gurgles angrily. She knows it’s now her true feelings and winces, forcing a smile. “Nothing,” she says as her throat strains with stabbing pain.

“Do you have a date in mind?” He asks sheepishly.

“What?”

“A date? For our wedding?” A smile struggles across his lips.

She grips the edge of her long gown. “I’d like winter. It’d be pretty.” She says. “Give us something to look forwards to in such cold weather.”

“What a great idea. That’s why you’re spellslinger.”His bright, jovial smile returns to his lips. It once brought her giddiness and joy, but now it just makes her stomach sick. It’s awful, to know that their relationship is dying and that there’s nothing he or she can do to save it.

* * *

Later that afternoon, when Faye’s sitting by her chamber window, she notices specks on the horizon. Her gaze narrows as she notices glints in the sunlight. She hears a horn sound at the watchtower, just beyond the outpost walls. It’s a warning call, ordering the soldiers to stations.

She rises from her seat and without control, reaches for her old priestess robes and armour. She stands, pulling down a sword from the coat of arms over top her bed. Inside, she sees this attack as her relationship with him. And she thinks that if she can fight and defend this outpost that binds her, cripples her, she’ll be able to save her relationship.

So she runs with the mass of soldiers, going to protect the outpost and southern Zofia. Some recognize her in her priestess robes, others don’t. She feels a fire ignite in her body, warming her soul for the first time in ages. The inky black thing constricts her throat as she prepares her sword.

The orders are shouted, the infantry to form a line, mages and their few archers and healers behind to support them. She glances up, towards, towards the line of commanders, catching Tobin’s wide gaze. She frowns, watching as he flicks Rosanne’s reins towards her. She opens her mouth to beginning to recite her Seraphim spell as the other commanders yell for them to charge. Light and feathers explode as she entraps several brigands in her spell, sending the outpost protectors stumbling backwards.

She’s still got that raw talent that shocked so many. Her fire spell scorches the intruders and her Seraphim magic never missing, the white feathers that fall after it’s casting marking the battlefield with a terrifying beauty. She even manages to summon that tricky Sagittae spell, piercing through the armour of soldiers like it’s nothing.

She hears someone cry out, the slash of a lance drawing blood. Faye turns, seeing the same girl who’s been posted outside her chamber for ages. She raises her sword, slicing through the brigands chest before dropping to her knees. She quickly recites her white magic spell, astounded when it works. The soldier looks at her with wide brown eyes, uttering a thank you before scrambling away to reach for her own sword.

She stands up, wavering. She forgot how quickly it wears her out, makes her dizzy and weak. She strikes her sword into the muddy ground, steadying herself against the hilt. She hears hooves and frowns, jumping as she feels a grip around her waist and sees the ground turn into a blur before her.

Tobin’s pulled her onto Rosanne’s back. “What are you doing?” He barks. “You should be in the outpost!”

“I’m fine, let me off,” she demands as he flicks the reins again, picking up his steed’s pace.

“No.” He says, head flicking back to see the dazed look she tries to fight. “You used white magic, didn’t you?”

“You have injured.” She says, struggling to get off.

His grip tightens as she sees the old stone and climbing ivy of the outpost come closer. “They can drink a tincture.” He says, glancing back to her. “You’re staying with me.”

“No I’m not.” She says firmly.

“Faye, don’t argue with me!”

“I need to heal them!” She yells back, forcing herself off the steed. He yanks on Rosanne’s reins, stopping her abruptly.

“This isn’t the time for stubbornness!” He argues. “You’re going to get yourself killed!”

They’re drawing attention of the other soldiers. “Would you care if I died?” She yells. He hesitates, his hand clutching into a loose fist. “I thought so.” She says bitterly before running off towards some fallen soldiers.

After the battle, they all insisted that they were fine and that she should rest. But instead, she worked herself to the point of exhaustion, collapsing in the great hall. 

* * *

Faye wakes swaddled in sheets with a cool cloth on her forehead. She blinks the sleep out of her eyes, scanning the room. Her priestess robes are gone, armour splayed across the floor. Her throat aches, feeling fire grow up and down her neck. 

She coughs, sitting up and pulls the cloth off of her forehead. She lets a sigh escape her lips. Her body aches and she remembers how much she hates white magic. It burns her throat, her hands and legs, right down to her chest, paining every move.

The soldier she helped stands outside her chamber, the door open. Her eyes widen as she notices Faye moving. “You’re awake.” She breathes, eyes wide. Her helmet is gone and Faye can see the remnants of a very long and tangled braid flowing down her back.

“You.” Faye says, voice hoarse.

“Milady, you saved my life. I did not know that such a fire lived inside a simple woman.” She says in a hushed voice.

“It’s my duty as a priestess to help.”

“I’ve only seen that fire in unhappy women.” She says.

“I’m not unhappy.” Faye lies.

“Exactly what an unhappy woman says.” The guard replies. She freezes, hearing footsteps. Faye knows who it is and eases against the bed board, sucking back a painful breath. The thing in her throat is angry, flaring up with a fury worse than a cold.

“Sir.” The guard says as Faye watches her stand at attention.

He pays no mind. “You’re dismissed, Kumiho.” He says, his gaze on Faye. The guard stands at attention. She salutes, then bows and leaves the room, shutting the door behind her.

There’s a sudden silence as Faye draws her legs to her chest. The sheets entangle around her knees as she draws another painful breath.

“What the hell were you thinking?” He asks, his voice tired. He lets out a breath. “You haven’t fought in an army for _years_. You could’ve been hurt, you could’ve been killed! You could’ve been trampled, you could’ve been kidnapped, you could’ve—”

“I wasn’t.”

“No, no. You just collapsed which is worse!” He argues, grasping for something for her to understand. “There’s so few healers in our ranks! Do you know what could have happened if you didn’t wake up?”

“I knew what would happened and I was ready for it.” She says, giving him a hard stare. “Do you really think I cannot handle myself?”

“I know you can, but you’ve expressed no interest in fighting here before.”

She stays quiet. He shakes his head. “You’re so stubborn.” He says. “Why don’t you speak your mind? I know you think I’m an idiot, and I see you biting back your tongue so why don’t you let it out?”

The thing in throat lashes uncontrollably, surging up her throat like bile. She doesn’t swallow back or smile this time. Instead she opens her mouth and lets it come out. It slips between her teeth, the little black monster that’s been hiding at the back of her throat since they’d arrived at the outpost.

“I don’t want this.” It hisses in her voice.

“What don’t you want?” He says. “Be specific.”

“This.” She says, gesturing around the room. “This fucking outpost!”

“You don’t want me?” He says.

“I want the old you!” She exclaims. “The one I fell in love with, not this idiot!” She takes back a breath. “I hate this outpost. I loathe it. All I’ve ever wanted is to go back to Ram Village and live there with you. But you’ve changed and I’ve stayed the same.”

“How have I changed?”

“Sir Tobin? You’re a commander now? You make fun of Ram when we’re with Clair and Gray and Celica and Alm! You don’t look at me like you used to!“ She says. “You’re embarrassed of me when we’re out in court.”

“Because you’re a lady now, you have to carry yourself in a certain way.” He says angrily. Tobin’s gaze narrows. “You’re still the stupid girl who cried to come along. I’ve changed for the better.”

“I’d rather be a stupid girl than an ignorant man.” She says bitterly, clenching her sheets in her hands.

He frowns as she takes back a shaky breath. “We just don’t work anymore!” She cries out tiredly. She lets the sheets go as she sucks back a breath. Her shoulders go slack. There’s no tightness in her throat, no heaviness in her heart anymore—just an unquenchable ache as she stands.

He stares at her for a moment. “We don’t work?” He asks.

“We don’t work.” She says. “I don’t think we ever truly did.”

She watches as he steps back from her bed. He lets out a heavy sigh, his face twisting into a furious frown. He shuts her door angrily, the coat of arms over her bed shaking as she throws herself back in her bed.

* * *

Faye stays awake all night. The tightness in her throat hasn’t returned, but the heaviness in her body lingers. She watches as the moon comes out, hangs in the sky for hours. When morning began to show it’s face, she stood from her seat by the windowsill and began to pack away her belongings.

She wraps up her embroidery, it’s hoop and her darning box, she folds her old village dresses, collects ointment bottles and vials of medication and wraps them in soft cloth for safe keeping. She pens a letter to Silque, thanking her for the guidance and inviting her to Ram Village. She gives it to Kumiho, whom she sees outside her chamber again. She tells her to deliver it to a wandering saint in Rigel.

“You’re leaving?” She asks, noticing her pack on her bed.

“I’m going home.” Faye says. “Thank you for your words.”

“I wanted to stop the pain that befell me.” She says, bowing her head. “I’m sorry I couldn’t.”

“I’m stubborn.” She says. “It’s the only way I’d learn.”

Kumiho gives her a sad smile before taking the letter. “I’ll see that it gets to the recipient safely.” She says. “I hope we meet again on happy circumstances again, Lady Faye.”

“I hope so too.” Faye says as she turns back into her room.

She wonders if this is a right move, to leave and go home. It’s selfish but it’s release, it’s a cathartic resolution to her pain. She changes back into her pink village dress, the old, worn fabric comforting her body like a warm hug. It’s been weeks since she wore it in the shrine, still carrying the damp smell and tears she’d cried. She’ll leave behind the stiff dresses that she’s worn for the past two years. She ties her hair into two long plaits and turns back to her bag. She’s knotting the ties when she hears a knock. She sucks back a breath, knowing who it is. She walks to the door, pulling it open and letting a breath escape her lips.

“Good morning.” Tobin says stiffly. His face is hard, and she wonders if he’s been sleepless like she.

“Morning.” Faye says.

His eyes catch the packed bag. “May I come in?” He asks, it’s forced, cold.

She nods, pulling the door open for him to step in. He hasn’t changed from his uniform from the night before, his medals swing on his against his chest, catching the early morning sun. He looks like a true commander. It only stands to solidify her argument, that she’s the same and he’s changed.

“I haven’t seen that dress in a while.” He says, trying to break the ice.

She knots her bag, glancing down at her pink skirt. “I missed wearing it.”

“You’re leaving?” He asks, eyes dragging back to her bag.

“I’m going home.” She says. “I need my home.”

He frowns. “I can come with you,”

“You haven’t come with me for the last seven times.” She says, her voice growing thin.

“I’ve been busy serving Alm. I can’t just drop everything and go back to Ram every few weeks.” He says. “You know that.”

“Then what makes this time any different? It’ll probably be like last time.” She says.

He frowns, reaching to touch her hand again. “I miss Ram just as much as you do.” He says.

“I’m sure you do.” She says, pulling away as his fingers graze the back of her hand. “But I miss it more. And these short visits won’t cut it. I’m going back to Ram, this time for good.”

He frowns, settling by the window. “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t happy here?” He asks quietly.

“I didn’t want to hurt you. But I didn’t realize it did more harm than good to stay silent.” She says. He steps closer, staring intently as she rests her hands on top of the large, inflated bag. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to go.” She meets his gaze, pleading with her to stay.

She pulls back a breath. “I need to.” She says. “I can’t stand it here.”

“I can’t make anything better?” He asks.

“No, you can’t.” She says quietly.

“Is that all you’re taking?” He asks, looking at her bag. He frowns, glancing to how full her chamber still is. “What about everything else?” He asks, gesturing to an ornate tapestry she’d sewn, the sword-less coat of arms, luxurious sheets from Zofia Harbour and jewelry gifted from the castle.

“I don’t need it.” She says, looking to the small bag, everything that she’d brought from Ram at the beginning of the war.

“But this is all yours.”

“It’s not mine anymore.” She says, almost pleading. “I’m tired of this life.”

His gaze softens. “You don’t want this?” He asks.

“No. I never... I never imagined I’d be in the army this long. And I’m tired and homesick.”

“And I can’t change your mind?” He asks, sadly.

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, but you can’t.”

He stays quiet, searching for something to say as he drops her hand. She sucks back a breath. “I have a question you won’t like.” She says.

“I’ll hear it.” He says.

She turns, meeting his gaze. Her gaze flickers back to the gold ring on her hand. “Did you ever have any intention of marrying me?” She asks quietly. He begins to speak as she holds up her hand. “I want the truth.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.” He says and it sounds like he even believes it. “We’ve been planning this for ages. Did you not want that?”

“And it only made me wonder how many more ages it will be until I’m your wife.”

“What’s wrong? You wanted the same things.” He says. “A nice home, good standing... _Me?_ Did you want me to be your husband?”

“I don’t know what I want anymore.” She breathes. He stops, the medals swinging in the air. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t want to be married?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?” He asks. “Do you want to be my wife or not?”

“I want to go home to Ram Village! You knew that!” She cries.

“You were just home.” He says.

“You never come with me.” She says weakly. There’s a thin, pained laugh. “My parents think it’s a farce union, actually. Like you were going to marry me out of pity so I won’t die a spinster.”

He frowns. “Is it a farce to you? Do you want to marry me?” He asks, voice desperate. “Because we can get a cleric or a sage here and be married right now.”

She stays quiet, stares at her hands. He speaks again, the question that pains her. “Do you love me?”

“I love you.” She says. He almost elates until she opens her mouth again. “But I can’t marry you.”

His face falls.

“But I... the life of a knight’s wife isn’t for me. You’re meant for this, you sparkle in court. I’m... I’m not made for this sort of life. I need simplicity.” She says. She stares at the gold band around her finger.

“Faye, don’t.” He pleads.

She breathes out a sigh, taking it off with one tired pull. “I’m sorry, Tobin. But you’re meant for this, I’m clearly not.” She says tiredly. She holds it out to him.

“But I love you.” He insists.

“And I love you too.” She says, taking his hand and placing the ring in it. “I hope we can be together someday.”

She stands on the tips of her toes, leaning up to kiss him gently. It’s hollow, empty. But at least, she feels a breath course through her lungs, make her stand taller.

“You don’t have to go.” He pleads, holding her tight. She feels him shake.

“If I stay I’ll only hurt you.” She says tiredly. “I can’t do that to you.”

“Wildflower...” 

She looks to him, taking his face in her hands. He glances down to her as she gives him a sad smile. “Silly Tobin... wildflowers can’t grow anywhere but the wild.” She says quietly.

He frowns, taking back a breath as she steps away from him. He takes her hand, pressing a long kiss into it as she sucks back a breath, blinking away tears. She pulls him close again, a final embrace.

“I’ll send a horse with you.” He says. His voice is quiet, defeated. “Take any one from the barn, don’t worry about sending it back.”

“Thank you.” She says quietly. She pulls away, hauling her bag onto her back and turning towards the door. She opens it, stepping out into the hallway.

“Faye?” He calls. It’s the first time she’s heard her name from his lips, something other than darling or honey or wildflower.

She turns on her heel, eyes back towards him in that small chamber, dressed in that bright commander’s uniform. He looks unrecognizable compared to the boy who snuck into her tent with a fistful of wildflowers and a stumbling voice. “Yes.” She says.

“Stay safe.”

She nods. “I will be.” She says. “I’ll write you when I get to Ram Village.”

He smiles softly and sadly, trying to be happy for her. A sign that he still loves her in whatever way he does. She bows her head, slipping out the doorway and walking down the long hallways of the outpost. The last time she’ll see these dour walls, this depressing building. And although they’re parting on sad terms, Faye feels comfort and relief in this choice.

Her boots meet the dirt ground, eyes scanning the ivy and climbing vines that refuse to dry in this drought. Faye begins forwards, across the quiet training grounds where her flowers once grew, where she once trained and once ran as free as the wind. And, out of the corner of her eye, she finds a patch of wildflowers—violets, buttercups, daisies and primroses—blooming in the shade of where her garden once was. Her lips curve into a smile as her heart catches in her chest.Such a sight reminds her thatwildflowers grow where they choose, not where they’re told to.


End file.
